


Play Me

by debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DCI Gene Hunt is propositioned, beginning with the words “Play me”. (First time for Sam and Gene.)</p>
<p>Contains spoilers for 2.7; Alternate Reality for 2.7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Me

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for Kink Bingo 2011, using the prompts Fireworks, Secret Fantasy, Tape Recorder.

After a loaded day in court, DCI Gene Hunt blows into his pitch-dark office like a rush of air and slams the door. 

“I'll have you!” he bellows. “Bastard!”

He hates sitting around for hours waiting to give evidence, only to have it prejudicially contested by the barrister.

“Slightly intoxicated! Bloody hilarious!” He can drink everyone in that courtroom under the table any day of the week. He hits the light switch, flooding the room, but he is the dark cloud threatening to snuff it out. 

He dumps a stack of files from his chair to the floor then sits down at his desk. He loosens the knot in his tie, letting it hang around his neck. He closes his eyes and stretches his neck first one way then the other, easing the cramped muscle. It used to be the missus kneading her fingers into his neck, followed by the brush of her lips. But that was before she gave him the boot and scarpered four months back. Damn her, the job was never nine-to-five. And he likes his drink, maybe a bit too much, but he isn't his old man. He isn't an alky.

Opening his eyes, Gene leans back in the chair and puts his feet up on the wastepaper bin. The jury hadn't known their arses from their elbows. The bloody idiots were nobbled by the barrister, the testimony of Davie Mackay, and by Gene's own temper. Unbelievable, really. 

The fact that Terry Haslam walked free is a joke. Who does he think he is? It makes his blood boil--and he wants to give that bent bastard what he deserves. Instead, he kicks the bin across the room. It hits a wall and crashes to the floor like a clap of thunder. It's a poor substitute for Haslam. He wishes he would kick the bucket.

He really wants a drink. The missus always says one is too many. Hell, after this shite day, ten thousand isn't enough. The idea of getting pissed with Ray and Chris in the Arms doesn't appeal to him. Chris would be his usual sheep-headed self while Ray would be chasing some skirt like he is Wile E. Coyote. When one attempt fails, he's always back at the drawing board.

Gene prefers to get some drinks in with Sam, but the useless git had beat it for Blackpool. Despite the appeal of the Irish Sea, why he wants to spend a couple of days in a town noted for shitty weather is beyond him. Sam always has to be different. 

Gene hauls his feet up on the desk. His desktop blotter is covered In the usual chaos of files and rubbish. The mess doesn't bother him; on the inside, he knows how to do his job. A tape recorder sits on a pile of files. There is a typewritten note placed on top, squarely in the middle. It reads, simply, Play Me.

Gene stares hard at the note, his brows knitting together. Is someone pulling his leg? He was made a laughingstock by that cool-box of a barrister (a right proper description), and he isn't in the mood for more disrespect.

He pulls his cigarettes out of his suit jacket pocket, drawing one from the pack. He lights it and inhales deeply before exhaling a large cloud of smoke. He pushes himself away from the desk and goes to stand by the door. His indistinct reflection is in the frosted glass. He stands there, his lips pulling on the cigarette. Almost without thinking, he knows he isn't going home to bed. He would only wake up in the middle of the night and reach out for her before remembering he is alone. He looks at the tape recorder. 

Play Me.

Where is the pain in the arse when he needs him? Even if Sam is up and down more often than a tart's knickers, Gene trusts him. What would he make of this? He moves back to the desk. He draws on the cigarette, the smoke settling on his shoulders. Remaining standing, he presses the play button.

The head … and the heart. I'd like to get them together … just bloody once. 

Sam? “Bloody hell.” Gene presses the stop button. He pushes the tape recorder away, and runs his tongue over his lips.

His mouth is dry. He wishes he was sipping on a nice cold pint with the boys after all. He crushes the smoke into an ashtray then reaches into his trouser pocket for his flask. He unscrews the top, swigging some of the whisky. Sighing heavily with appreciation, he replaces the top. Sam would say the taste reminds him of a campfire on the beach. He wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He thinks about Sam's voice. It has something to tell him. 

Play Me.

He presses play.

There are nights when I feel … truly alone. When you think that no one cares … it gets you down. Some things … you can't ignore. Sometimes ... you just know. The connection between us. Right, or wrong … I don't want to be alone tonight. I'm at the Gardens Hotel here, in Manchester … Room 203 … all night. It's up to you, Gene. 

Up to him. “Flaming-Nora!” Gene pushes stop. He'll bloody kill Sam. He takes the cassette out of the tape recorder and rips the magnetic tape from the shell. 

***

Slamming on the brake, Gene wrenches the steering wheel of the Cortina and makes a U-turn. He parks in front of the hotel and sits there in the dark. He looks up at the concrete exterior. His conscience tries to have at him, but his instinct tells him that he's doing the right thing. He opens the door and gets out, his tie twisting in the wind like a snake. He goes inside, bypassing the reception desk and heads for the lift. It's tiny, and there's barely room for him.

As it moves up, Gene tries to collect his thoughts, but … Sam is waiting for him. He's going to give him what for, just before he gives him a reason for a kidney transplant. 

203\. He pounds on the door like he's about to make an arrest. Almost immediately, he hears footsteps and the click of the door being unlocked. It opens, tentatively at first, then wide and a familiar head appears, hair short and out-of-place--much like Sam himself. They stand awkwardly, facing each other. 

Sam looks at him, his eyes even darker than usual. “Come in,” he says finally.

Gene hears a door close, and voices. He turns his head toward the sound. They're laughing, and getting closer. He pushes his way past Sam and shuts the door with a bang. Planting his feet apart, he takes a cursory glance around the room. There are heavy curtains across the window, and he sees a well-used armchair. Blood-red with stuffing bursting free, it's a beast, foaming at the mouth. It's an obvious contrast to Sam's colourless face. Several table lamps light up the double bed.

The sight of it makes him set his lips. “Big mistake,” Gene bites out. He takes a step toward Sam, then stops. “I hate you, Tyler,” he says in a whisper, clenching his fist. 

Sam stands there for a moment. “Is that what you really think?” He reaches out to place his hand on Gene's shoulder.

Gene holds up his hands. “Don't bloody touch me.”

Sam gives him a sad smile. “Meaning what?”

Gene's fist slams into Sam's cheek. Sam stumbles, nearly losing his balance. He twists away from Gene, holding the side of his face. Gene grabs Sam by the right arm, pulling it behind him and pinning it to his back. He kicks Sam's feet out from under him, forcing him to his knees. He gets a whiff of Sam--musk over a hint of lemon shampoo. 

This is wrong. “What in the bloody hell makes you think I want to swap spit with you?” Sam's shoulders sag. Gene twists his arm tighter. “That's my point.” Sam is quiet. Gene finds no pleasure in it. “Didn't you hear me?” he asks, not bothering to hide his irritation. “I said--”

“My name,” Sam groans.

“Name?” It throws Gene off and he lets go of Sam's arm.

Sam gets to his feet and turns to face him, rubbing his arm, a spot of colour on his cheek. Their eyes connect. Sam gives him a look. Even in the weak glow of the lamps, Gene sees tears. 

He is who he is--an arsehole, he thinks with satisfaction. “You can't always get what you want,” Gene says.

“What do you want?” 

Gene thrusts his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I'm no good at this.” He hears footsteps on the ceiling and looks up with a scowl. 

“Say my name.” Eyes the colour of roasted chestnuts are imploring Gene to answer. “Say it.”

The bottom of his stomach drops. His throat constricts. “Sam.” 

Sam closes his eyes. It's like he's absorbing the word. 

“Sam,” Gene repeats, his voice soft like he's sharing a secret. It's one he hadn't even known he owned, until now. 

Sam opens his eyes, his mouth curving into a small smile. Unconsciously, they both move forward. Their faces inch closer. Sam's so close Gene can see his eyelids quivering. There's enough time to say no, or step back, but Gene does nothing. Their lips touch. 

Fireworks explode inside of his head. This is ... this is ... Sam. Looking into his warm, brown eyes, Gene sees the same joy. Naked. Vulnerable. “Shit,” he says. 

“One word,” Sam counters. He grins. 

“Oh, shit.”

“Two words, that.”

“Erudite--and I even know what it means, Gladys.”

“Yeah, but can you spell it?”

“Bastard.” Gene reaches out, and wraps his hand around Sam's neck. He leans forward and kisses him. Sam responds by curling his fingers around his tie and, with a strong tug, leads him toward the bed. 

Sam slackens his grip on the tie, working the knot free and pulling it from Gene's neck. His fingers move to the buttons of Gene's shirt. Gene almost pulls away and tells him to stop--but he can't. Sam unfastens them one by one, peeling the shirt from his shoulders and arms, and letting it drop to the floor. He repeats with his hands, gliding them over Gene's shoulders and arms. Gene feels a flood of warmth. 

Sam sheds his own shirt, revealing the Saint Christopher medal, and the pale skin and line of his neck. Gene looks at him, standing in his vest and trousers. He is slim, nearly scrawny. Gene chuckles.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “W-What?”

Gene looks down at his stomach. He can't even see his feet. He gives his belly a pat. “I can't decide if I should be jealous--or lick you.” He traces Sam's neck.

Sam's Adam's apple moves up and down. “Get your kit off.”

Gene kicks off his white slip-ons. Sam unzips his boots and struggles with his socks. When they are both stripped, Gene shakes his head. “I can't believe I'm showing you my dangly-bits, Tyler.”

Sam leans forward and puts his mouth to Gene's ear. “You'd better watch your back.” He bites his ear lightly, once, twice, then thrusts his tongue inside, quick and moist. “Do you want this?” he whispers. His breath is hot like he's on fire. 

“I want--” Gene can't concentrate. The warmth flows through his veins, swelling and threatening to run over. He feels for Sam's left nipple, flicking it with his thumb. When it goes erect, he gives it a pinch. Sam draws his breath in sharply. Gene moves his hand to Sam's chest, giving him a shove. Sam grabs Gene's arm and winds his right foot around his leg. He pulls him hard, and Gene falls to the bed. 

Sam looks smug. Gene forces his foot between Sam's legs. He's about to kick out, but Sam takes hold of his leg. “On your knees,” he says.

Gene shifts his position, so that he's kneeling on the bed. Sam sits in front of him and spreads his legs. Their cocks are erect, touching each other. Sam begins jerking himself off, squeezing the base of his cock. He moves his hand up the shaft, keeping the pressure. As his hand slides down, he loosens his grip. He repeats, increasing the pressure and rhythm. 

Gene leans back, his thigh muscles tightening. He wraps his fingers around his own cock, moving them up and squeezing. He pulls on the head then loosens his hand, bringing it back down. 

Sam stops. He watches then leans forward, pressing his lips to Gene's. They kiss, soft and yielding. Gene bites Sam's bottom lip with a slight pressure. Sam moans and pulls away. “Jerk me off,” he urges. 

Gene takes hold of Sam's cock, squeezing it at the bottom. He moves his hand up. 

“Tighten your hand a little,” Sam tells him. “That's right …” He lets Gene continue to masturbate him, and pre-come oozes on to Gene's fingers. They kiss, hard and insistent. Their mouths open and their tongues meet. Suddenly, Sam grabs Gene's wrist. “Stop,” he says into Gene's mouth.

Gene chuckles. “You are joking me.” 

“No.” 

Gene yanks his arm away. “What's sodding wrong?” 

“I don't want to come. Not yet.” His fingers graze the tip of Gene's cock. He closes his grip and squeezes, sliding his hand down. His left hand gropes for Gene's balls.

“Push down on my balls,” Gene commands. “Not so much … perfect ...” Sam continues to stimulate him. Between breaths, Gene manages to say, “Don't stop.” He moans. “I'm getting close.” Sam lets go, and he feels the sensation fade. “Bloody hell.” 

With a wry grin, Sam shifts his position on the bed. He starts sucking Gene's cock, his mouth moving up and down. He uses his left hand to add to what his mouth is doing, wrapping his fist around the base of Gene's cock. Gene's pulse races; the warmth spills over like a flood, and he's alive with it. He's more alive than he's been for months.

“Oh-h, Sam … keep going … faster now …” Gene rocks his hips, and Sam matches his speed. His blood pumping, Gene's body tenses and he clamps his hand on his arse and keeps thrusting. “I'm going to come ...” Sam keeps licking and sucking until he groans and shakes, and he swallows. 

Sam leans back against the pillows. Gene lies between his legs, his hand on Sam's stomach. His tongue touches Sam's cock lightly, just below the head. He moves his lips slowly down the shaft before taking the head into his mouth. He deliberately doesn't take him too far into his throat. He doesn't want to gag. 

“Just like that … yeah … great ...” Sam tenses. Gene lifts his head with a popping sound. The head of Sam's cock is large and purple. Gene coils his fingers around the shaft, forming a tube that continues what his mouth was doing. Sam moans and thrusts his pelvis back and forth. “I'm almost there.” Gene fingers Sam's balls, and come shoots out in several spurts.

Gene lies down beside Sam and moves into his arms. He rests his head against Sam's chest and closes his eyes. He feels the heat coming from Sam's body. Sam runs his hand over Gene's hair. “I wanted you the first time I saw you.”

Gene snorts. “The truth.”

“The third time then.” Sam kisses him. 

Gene feels a muscle in his back contract. He knows Sam feels it too because he lets Gene pull away and free himself. Gene swings his legs to the floor and gets to his feet, his cock and balls falling limply between his legs. He rummages through his clothes.

“What are you looking for?” Sam asks.

“Fag.”

“You smoke too much.”

“I always do after a shag.”

When he finds one, he doesn't light it right away but lets the cigarette dangle from his hand like a sixth appendage. He stands there in the dim light of the lamps, not moving.

“Are you all right, Gene?” 

He shakes his head. “There it is,” he speaks, forcing a laugh. 

“Yeah.” 

“Some things … There's no going back, my friend.” 

“I know. Maybe, we find a way forward.“ Sam clears his throat, but he isn't crying. “Sit down. We'll talk.”

Gene puts the smoke between his lips, breaking the stubborn set of his jaw. Lighting it, he takes a puff, slow and drawn out, and sends out a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. He takes a seat in the armchair, his arms hanging over the sides. Leaning forward, he meets Sam's eyes.


End file.
